


for alyssa: paradise regained

by hojichadust



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-06-01 03:48:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6499621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hojichadust/pseuds/hojichadust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Going to the teacher for extra help has never ended like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	for alyssa: paradise regained

**Author's Note:**

> special thanks to lulu who beta-ed this for me last minute  
> this is for alyssa who has just turned 19 and is the most die-hard tom hardy fan i know respect ily

If one wanted to survive an English class, any English class, what you need is a good imagination. Between not caring enough to actually read the books, browsing notes online, and then finally having to acknowledge the assignments, everything connects if you know how to bullshit an opinion out of thin air. Usually, this is how Arthur made it through English classes so far.

This time, though, it’s definitely not cutting it, and he can easily pinpoint the reason why. Professor Eames is probably the most…unique of teachers to be hired at this university. Where most other classes are taught by old, greying parrots who probably willingly ate army rations at home for dinner, Eames is young, almost startlingly so, and actually tries to engage his students on the material, always encouraging opinions and cracking little jokes here and there to try and make the book seem interesting. He seems to care about things that none of the other staff even dream of paying attention to—like whether the cut of his suit is right, or whether his beard is an appropriate length. And, apparently, whether or not the bullshit papers he gets handed make any real sense or not.

Arthur’s in real deep shit now. This is only the first assignment of the year, but it’s already a failed mark, in his book: a 61%. It’s insane. He’s gotten away with as good as 77% on assignments without ever having completed the assigned readings, and he thought this year would just be more of the same. But this, this is bad. He can already see that he’s not going to get away with doing the same for the rest of the year; he’s going to fail otherwise. And he hates Eames for it.

The bell signalling the end of the period rings, and Arthur snaps out of his reverie to hear the professor assigning the next two books of _Paradise Lost_ for homework. Flattening his mouth, Arthur gathers up his belongings and slowly approaches the front of the room as the rest of the students file out behind him, paper clutched in his hand.

Eames is in the middle of erasing his chicken scratch from the black board, so Arthur has to get close and clear his throat. “Professor.”

Eames looks over. “Ah, Arthur,” he says, with that lazy English drawl of his and a rather annoying smile on his face. 

“I wanted to talk about the assignment.”

“By all means.” Eames carefully dusts his hands off and sits at the front desk, motioning for Arthur to take the chair next to it. Arthur sits down reluctantly, his bag on his back taking up most of the seat so that his ass is just barely hanging off the edge of it.

“You gave me a 61%,” Arthur says, proffering his paper. 

“Yes.”

“I’d like to know why.”

“I wrote some comments in the columns,” Eames says, flipping through the pages and scanning them quickly. “I suppose my handwriting really is that bad?”

Truthfully Arthur hadn’t even glanced at them, having immediately decided that whatever he wrote was probably all nonsense anyway, so he just nods.

“Well, for starters,” Eames scratches his scalp with the back of his pen, “this sounds like you wrote it the night before and didn’t bother to proofread it afterwards.”

Arthur freezes in his seat, his neck colouring. 

“You use a lot of colloquial language. I’m guessing that was to try and reach the assigned word count, but it clogs up your argument. You could do to just say things more simply. Then there’s the issue of the close reading itself.” Eames flips pages again. “Your analysis…it’s a bit one-sided. It doesn’t really discuss the questionable elements in Satan’s appearance. For example, here, you describe him as a Byronic hero. I’m guessing you learned that term from a previous English course, but it’s a bit anachronistic, because Milton came before Byron did, so Milton wouldn’t have seen rebellion as inherently heroic. The passage conveys this, if you look carefully. Do you see what I mean?”

Arthur didn’t. In fact, he hasn’t the slightest idea what any of what Eames just said means, because he had in fact pulled the Byronic hero thing out of his ass from previous English courses without really checking to see if it added up. He honestly can’t believe the amount of detail Eames put into seeing whether Arthur actually knew what he was talking about. And to top it off, he has no idea what the fuck “anachronistic” means. 

“Now, you don’t necessarily have to agree with my specific reading, but you need to at least acknowledge the evidence and use your essay to respond to it, in the event that you don’t agree. The big problem is that you’re ignoring a lot of the details to shape the text to your argument.”

“I see,” Arthur says stiffly. He’s very tempted to give Eames the cold shoulder now, but his grade is on the line, and that 61% is going to ruin his GPA if he doesn’t do something about it. “Is there any way I could re-submit this assignment for a better grade?”

“I’d have to allow the whole class that privilege, if I did it for you. Tell you what, though. Nothing stopping you from coming to see me for some extra help.” Eames scribbles something on the top of Arthur’s paper, then hands it back to him. “Those are my office hours. You can swing by as often as you like, especially if you’re unsure of something. I’d be happy to help.”

“Very well,” Arthur says, standing up. Eames smiles at him, almost an expectant, knowing little smirk, and Arthur nearly frowns back at him, not understanding the meaning in his expression.

“Take care, darling,” Eames says, leaning back in his chair, and it’s not until Arthur is halfway to his next period that he realizes that Eames just called him “darling.”

What an asshole.

  

The absolute last thing Arthur wants is to take up Eames on that offer, because he’d really prefer to suffer his presence as little as possible. If he wanted, he could sign up to have a tutor go over his papers at the writing centre, but he knows the most they can offer is to help him with his writing style, not the actual analysis itself, which seemed to comprise the majority of Eames’ complaints. And Eames is probably the only _Paradise Lost_ expert within a five hundred mile radius, the prick.

“Do it for the grade,” Arthur mutters under his breath, furiously pressing the elevator button in the humanities building while a passerby does a double-take. “Do it for the grade. Do it for the grade.”

This isn’t the first time he’s had to approach his teachers for extra help, so he’s able to navigate the building easily enough. The carpeted hallways are quiet, a lone conversation between two teaching assistants floating down from somewhere indiscernible. Arthur scans the room numbers until he finds the name plaque he’s looking for, then, very reluctantly, knocks on the wooden door. 

Eames looks up from his desk, and the surprise on his face is evident. “My goodness,” he says. “I didn’t know whether to expect you. Please, come in. Close the door after you, so we don’t disturb the other teachers.”

Arthur does as he’s asked, then takes the chair seated opposite of Eames’ desk and puts his bag on the floor. There isn’t much to his office; it’s small, probably due to being recently hired in the department, and his space is neat, without any kind of decoration. No family pictures, no fake potted plants, nothing. Just a plain white mug with the words _Watership Down_ scrawled on it, the layers and layers of coffee rings on the inside visible even from here.

Eames catches him studying the mug and looks at it. “Ah, you’ll laugh. It’s the title of a British novel about rabbits,” he says, even though Arthur didn’t ask, and is much more concerned with the fact that that mug has clearly never seen the inside of a dishwasher. “Right, so what can I do for you today, Arthur?”

“Well,” Arthur pulls his binder out of his bag, “I know you said I can’t re-submit this, but I was wondering if you’d be willing to look at it again. I tried fixing it after your advice.” This is half of a lie, because he’s secretly hoping this will inspire Eames to change his grade for the better after all.

Eames takes it and begins reading it over immediately, no questions asked. Within ten seconds the atmosphere sinks into an unexpected pool of awkwardness. Arthur has no idea what to do while his teacher goes through his work, and he goes from examining his fingernails, to pretending to fix his clothes, to finally giving up and just watching him expectantly, waiting for him to finish.

He looks like he’s slimmed out a bit. Eames was a hulking brute of a man at the very start of classes, his suit straining at the seams, apparently having done some serious heavy lifting on his previous job. He’s not quite so obscenely muscular now, and his suit looks much more relaxed on his shapely form. He’s shorter than Arthur expected, too. Arthur hadn’t noticed just listening to him lecture in class, but it was glaringly evident when he’d approached the teacher a couple of days ago. Arthur squints a little, trying to measure the ratio between the man’s torso and legs to see which was the cause of his lacking height. 

“Eyes up here, darling,” Eames says, without looking up from the paper, and Arthur looks up in shock when he realizes Eames thought he was checking him out. 

His neck grows hot against his will. “Don’t call me that,” he says tersely. 

“Sorry,” Eames says, shooting him a quick smile, which only annoys Arthur even more. He purses his lips, hands curling into fists over his knees for a moment. 

“Can I ask,” Arthur says, “why you’re a teacher?”

Eames lowers the paper, studying Arthur’s expression. “Do you mean what motivated me to become a teacher, or what possessed the headmaster to hire me as a teacher?”

“Maybe both.”

Eames gets a good laugh at his gall. “I became a teacher because I couldn’t stop reading. I took nothing but English courses when I was in university. Then I did my master's so I could read more, and then my PhD. Then I tried to think of a well-paid job where I could just read the books I enjoyed for as long as I wanted, and so here I am.”

Arthur kept silent, waiting. 

“As to why I got hired…I couldn’t tell you. It was a long shot applying here straight out of college. Maybe your headmaster has the hots for me.”  
“I’m sure,” Arthur says sarcastically. 

“You mean to say you don’t think people might find me attractive?” Eames raises one eyebrow, and for some reason, it gets Arthur shifting in his seat, a weird sensation crawling up his belly. 

“People will like what they will,” Arthur answers, which he thinks is a pretty good neutral answer. 

Eames smirks a little, before pushing Arthur’s paper forward. “It’s better,” he says. “A lot better. You can tell it’s not the first draft, but it’s still a bit wordy. Like here,” he points, and Arthur scoots his chair close to the desk so he can see. “This whole bit, you can replace it with just ‘this word is also used here’. You don’t have to explain it’s important. They’ll know it’s important as soon as you make the comparison.”

“Alright,” Arthur says, and without thinking he takes the pen Eames is holding and obediently scrawls down his advice. “Anything else?”

There’s no response to this, and Arthur looks up to find Eames is staring at him. They’re close, a lot closer than Arthur had realized, because they’re both leaning over their respective side of the desk to look at the paper. Eames is just mere inches away from him now, and in his eyes is something indescribable, an expression Arthur has never seen there before. It’s serious, but it’s bordering on something else, his dark eyes looking deep into Arthur’s face. His stare, combined with their proximity, has Arthur frozen, but his insides are heating up, his whole body tingling, inexplicably falling headfirst into whatever spell Eames is casting on him. 

His time to prepare is brief. One moment Eames’ eyes are flickering to look at Arthur’s mouth, and in the next his mouth is on his. Arthur inhales sharply through his nose, stunned. His lips are fuller than Arthur anticipated, and they move slowly against his, coaxing him into it. After a few moments, Arthur finds himself relaxing, and nothing except the sound of their lips can be heard in the tiny office.

This is the absolute last thing Arthur expected when he walked in here today. But it’s not…unwanted. In fact, it’s unexpectedly pleasant. 

Eames reaches out, pinching the fabric of Arthur’s shirt at the sleeve and tugging on it. Arthur breaks off the kiss, standing up, and he doesn’t drop his gaze from Eames’ face as he rounds the desk to reach him. He uses both hands to grip Eames’ shoulders and push his chair back against the desk, before leaning back in and recapturing his mouth. 

Eames grabs his face with both hands, thick fingers musing up Arthur’s carefully styled hair, but Arthur can’t remember to care. He can feel Eames’ tongue pushing for access and lets him in, the teacher’s eagerness evident as he licks hot and brutal into his mouth. A part of him can’t believe this is happening, partly because Arthur never thought he had it in him to hook up with a _teacher_ , but every time his thoughts wander, they’re instantly reeled back to the present moment, Eames’ every move demanding his undivided attention. 

With that Eames suddenly stands up, twisting them around and pinning Arthur to the edge of the desk instead, pressing his body up against him. Their pants are starting to fill the room, the confined space heating up quickly, hands greedily gripping at each other. “What if someone walks in?” Arthur grits out, between Eames tugging on his lower lip. 

“Door automatically locks when you close it,” Eames murmurs, hands slipping around Arthur’s slim waist and pulling him closer. 

Arthur pushes Eames’ blazer off of his shoulders, the fabric rustling as it hits the floor, and then he lets his hands wander, feeling Eames’ back muscles rippling beneath his shirt. It’s beyond hot, especially when Arthur feels them as Eames reaches down to undo Arthur’s slacks. Arthur doesn’t hesitate to do the same, and after a struggle of belt buckles and zippers their pants are pushed to mid-thigh. Eames is thick, his cock red and pulsing inside of Arthur’s hand, and they both hiss out a moan at the contact.

“You are the only student I’ve seen who wear slacks,” Eames says, and Arthur watches, pupils going dark, as Eames slowly sinks down onto his knees in front of him. “It drives me absolutely crazy, darling.”

The thought of snapping at him for the pet name begins to bubble up in Arthur’s mind, but it’s instantly quelled the moment Eames opens the bottom drawer of his desk and pulls out a bottle of lube. “Jesus Christ,” Arthur breathes out. “Do you always sleep with your students?”

“Far from it.” Eames slicks up his fingers, with a precision and care that shows this is far from his first time doing this. “I was just hoping I’d get to see you.”

Then he does a very unexpected thing, and reaches behind himself, boring into Arthur with a smouldering gaze as he inserts his middle finger into his own asshole. Arthur’s breath stutters, the sight obscene beyond belief. The tail end of Eames’ button-down is slightly obstructing the view, but Arthur knows what’s going on down there, can picture it well. Eames’ free hands are travelling up Arthur’s bare thigh and over his pelvis, his palm hot against his skin, and Arthur thinks he knows what’s coming, but it still doesn’t prepare him—nothing could have—for the moment that Eames’ fingers tilt Arthur’s cock down by the base and bring it to his lips.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Arthur gasps, watching as Eames’ lips wrap around the head of his cock. If Arthur thought Eames’ mouth was nice when he was kissing it then he didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about. Eames pulls his mouth away for a moment, hushing him with a slightly amused look. 

“Don’t want the other teachers to hear,” Eames says.

Arthur nods, too breathless to do anything else, and Eames sinks his mouth back down, lips stretching wide around the girth. His mouth is incredibly hot and slick, his tongue sliding expertly along the underside as he bobs his head. Arthur has to bite into his lower lip to keep from making any further noise, because Eames looks impossibly good sucking his dick. His lips are already red from the rubbing, slick with spit, and Eames looks him in the eye as he takes him deeper and deeper into his throat. The sensation of Eames’ throat constricting around the head pulls a thick groan out from between Arthur’s clenched teeth.

Slowly, Arthur lifts one hand and places it carefully at the back of Eames’ head, waiting to see if the teacher would reject it. He doesn’t. In fact, Eames relents the grip he has on the base of Arthur’s cock, and reaches down to stroke himself, his fist working rapidly in comparison to the two fingers he’s now tucked into his asshole. Arthur hisses another curse, adjusting his grip on the back of Eames’ head before shallowly thrusting into his mouth. Eames lets him, his eyes still locked tight on Arthur’s, but Arthur can see his teacher is finally falling apart. He’s shaking where he kneels, his hips twitching to the double stimulation he’s giving himself. Arthur watches as Eames pushes a third finger into himself, and here Eames finally lets out his first moan, a low, quiet thing that rumbles in waves up Arthur’s cock. 

“Don’t come,” Arthur pants out. He only meant to be careful, so as to not end the session prematurely, but Eames’ pupils blow out at the command, his hips jerking noticeably. He _likes_ it, Arthur realizes with a shock, and suddenly Arthur is in more danger of coming than Eames is in that moment. 

“Get up,” Arthur says, voice hoarse with arousal. He yanks on Eames’ hair to pull him off his cock. “Get up. Give me the lube.”

The way Eames follows his instructions without any resistance or a single snarky retort is just as stupefying. He pulls his fingers out of himself with a wince and stands up, positioning himself against the desk and bending over it without any prompting, and it makes Arthur so dizzy with arousal that he nearly drops the bottle twice, his hands are shaking so much. It takes a ridiculous amount of effort for him to lube his dick up, but he manages it, and he’s glad Eames keeps a tissue box, at least, so that he can wipe his hand clean before grabbing Eames again.

Eames catches the movement out of the corner of his eye, and he huffs in disbelief. “Are you really going to do that right now, darling?”

“Would you rather there was an unidentified substance staining your work clothes?” Arthur shoots back, and he thinks he hears Eames snorting faintly, but there’s no further argument. He tosses the tissues in the waste basket he sees under the desk, then, shuffling forward, he positions himself with one hand and pushes in. 

If there’s one thing he’s thankful for, it’s that Eames can’t see his expression as he sinks in balls-deep. The hot, tightness of him is like nothing Arthur could ever have imagined, and his jaw drops, a loud moan just catching in his throat, before he’s able to stop himself—everyone in the hall would’ve heard that one. Beneath him Eames lets out a breathless moan too, spreading his legs further apart to accommodate him as Arthur sinks all the way in.

“Arthur,” Eames says, his voice weak, and Arthur realizes with a jolt that somehow this is exactly what he needed, after all that anger, after all that frustration. To see Eames bent over, hanging off his cock like this, his asshole stretched just for him. The satisfaction is so acute that Arthur feels his body filling up with a newfound vigour, and he doesn’t hesitate to start pounding into him, forgoing starting slow altogether. 

“Oh, fuck, Arthur,” Eames slurs, hanging onto the edge of the desk with both hands, and just like that Eames is now the mouthy one, an endless stream of moans spilling out of his lips as Arthur fucks him brutally into the desk. Arthur’s got a death grip on Eames’ hips, and a sweat breaks out over his forehead from the immense concentration, watching as his cock disappears inside of Eames’ asshole over and over again. He’s going at it hard enough that the desk is making little creaking noises with each slam in, mixing in with the squelching noises, but it only spurs him on even more. There might never have been a more satisfying moment in Arthur’s life thus far, and every time he hears Eames moaning and chanting his name it just keeps getting better and better. 

“Fuck, you’re going to be the end of me,” Eames breathes, his words choppy with the whimpers that Arthur pulls out of him with each thrust. “You’re remarkably good at this.”

“You were expecting otherwise?” Arthur says, and, just to tease, he bends over and repositions himself so that his cock is sliding exactly where Eames wants it. It works, because Eames lets out a litany of curses, his thighs shaking violently next to Arthur’s.

“Arthur,” Eames chokes out, “don’t make me beg, please.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Arthur says, nuzzling Eames’ ear as he says this, before straightening back up and going back to the brutal pace from before, this time hitting Eames’ prostate dead on with every thrust. It barely takes more than a minute, queued in by the way Eames’ moans became more and more breathy, and then there’s a full body shudder as Eames loses it and comes all over the floor under his desk, his knuckles white as he hangs on for dear life. His body goes lax and submissive as Arthur chases after his release, and at the last moment Arthur pulls out and holds his cock against Eames’ left asscheek as he comes, so as to not make a mess of it everywhere.

“Don’t move,” Arthur pants, and he reaches out and grabs another tissue to clean Eames off, trying to erase as much of the evidence as possible. He does the best he can and tosses this out, too, before taking a step back and promptly collapsing in Eames’ chair, thoroughly exhausted.

“Fuck, darling,” Eames says finally, straightening up and running a hand through his hair as he faces him. His forehead is all sweaty, too, as are patches of his shirt. They’d both completely forgotten to undress. “When I said I was hoping to see you I didn’t think I’d be getting a beast with it.”

“If you keep flattering me I’m going to think you’re lying,” Arthur says, leaning his head to rest on the back of the chair. He doesn’t hit the gym, unlike a certain somebody, and it’s been a while since he last had sex, so he doubts whether he’ll ever be able to rise from this chair again. 

Eames pulls his pants back up and starts fixing himself, tucking the ends of his shirt into the belt and stooping to pick up his crumpled jacket. “I hope you didn’t just play along cause you think it’ll convince me to improve your grade.”

“I wasn’t thinking about it,” Arthur says, looking at Eames with a slight scowl, “but it’d be a nice gesture.”

Eames laughs, then, out of nowhere, swoops in and pecks Arthur on the lips. “Get out of here, you cheeky ass. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Kicking me out after the deed is done? Cold,” Arthur says, but he doesn’t mean it, perfectly happy with this arrangement. He leaves his edited paper and gathers up his bag and jacket, half-heartedly pushing his hair back in place. 

He’s about to reach for the door, but then a thought comes to him, and he turns and looks at Eames curiously.

“Is this…I mean, how often are you expecting me to come in for extra help?” Arthur asks. 

Eames smiles, and Arthur watches as he returns the bottle of lube to its place in the bottom drawer of his desk. 

“As often as you’d like, darling.”


End file.
